The other day, as I drove in down the drive, a burst of wind tore across the yard. It hit the last of the Lacy Oaks to still have its leaves. A big batch of them came loose right in front of me in a tumbling torrent, leaving the tree, heading to the ground. I still have the picture in my mind: a striking image, one I’d like to have on film, but have to trust instead to my brain.

I had a weekend full of that sort of thing. Multiple days of music, new and old. Dinners with friends. There was talk of love and loves and songs about the same. The sun shone bright; a cool wind blew. A child ran to my embrace. And here I sit, sentimental me, awash in the afterglow, tears brimming at the edge of my eyes, wondering how in the world I can ever thank all the people in my life who so freely offer me their love and affection.

And this morning, a hard rain is falling, and we need it. So, the goodness continues, and tomorrow I embark on a road trip with friends and that promises more of the same. And thus ends the first month of 2022, a year that started with dancing and a willing embrace by me of heartache and sorrow. Because we need the latter, it’s how we know we’re alive. Sorrow and sadness. Love and joy. Loss and discovery. A burst of wind blowing leaves from a tree, knowing they will come again this spring.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale